


A Certain Partiality

by kingfindekano



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Excessive Electric Candles, Happy Birthday Hermann, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 07:37:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14890334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingfindekano/pseuds/kingfindekano
Summary: This is a date, he believes. All the evidence certainly indicates as much: Newt has actually brushed his hair, and there is wine, and there are electric candles. He wishes Newt would simply tell him his feelings outright, make clear his intentions, though he does suppose he shares equal blame — he has not confessed his feelings either. He has not confessed that he loves Newt, that he is in love with Newt, and perhaps it took a decade of Newt’s possession by dreadful malevolent creatures for the knowledge to come crashing down upon him, but he has known Newt for half his life and loved him just as long.





	A Certain Partiality

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick little fic for our favorite gay mathematician's birthday! This was meant to be a drabble, but it rather got away from me and turned into this.

Their fingers brush as they reach simultaneously for their wine glasses, and as if the touch burns they draw back their hands; Hermann’s gaze flickers to Newt for the briefest of instants before sliding back down to his dinner plate. He feels the ghost, and knows that Newt likely feels it too, of their fingers tangled casually together earlier that day, of his thumb rubbing soft circles into Newt’s hand and Newt pressing himself ever closer to his side as they walked to their apartment. Strictly speaking the apartment is Hermann’s, though for the time Newt spends there Hermann thinks of it no longer as belonging solely to himself.

There in his dining room they sit, cast in the dim light of far too many electric candles. Miniature electric candles — Newt’s way of sneaking about Hermann’s refusal to let him burn real candles for the (quite founded) fear of him burning down the apartment. One candle sits in the center of the small antique table, while the rest dot the dining room shelves like little stars. The curtains are drawn about the sole window of the room, though valedictory rays of evening sunlight pour against the thin fabric, suffuse it in gentle aureate light.

It is warm, for summer has just swept in, and Hermann feels further warmth creeping into his cheeks, though fiercely he urges it away. He will not spend his birthday dinner blushing like a lovestruck youth. This is a date, he believes. All the evidence certainly indicates as much: Newt has actually brushed his hair, and there is wine, and there are electric candles. He wishes Newt would simply tell him his feelings outright, make clear his intentions, though he does suppose he shares equal blame — he has not confessed his feelings either. He has not confessed that he loves Newt, that he is in love with Newt, and perhaps it took a decade of Newt’s possession by dreadful malevolent creatures for the knowledge to come crashing down upon him, but he has known Newt for half his life and loved him just as long.

How strange, he thinks, to share dinner by candlelight and yet wonder still at the feelings of his companion. How utterly typical, he also thinks, that they the two of them should hold hands walking down the street and tell deep-rooted secrets and have evening dates despite never breathing a word of their feelings.

So Hermann lingers on the sensation of their fingers brushing feather-light, and stares at the meal Newt has so carefully prepared. It is not particularly good, but still Newt labored so painstakingly over it and for so long that Hermann does not mind choking down the bites that bespeak Newt’s truly inordinate usage of salt.

“Hey, Hermann?” Newt says softly.

Through his eyelashes Hermann looks up at Newt, and sees the earnestness written so beautifully across his face, and feels the iron-sharp scrape of something deep in his gut: fear, or hope, or love twisted to nausea.

“Yes?” says Hermann.

Newt’s brow knits, and Hermann can near physically see him gathering his resolve, and knows that something important is toward. For the sake of something solid to clutch, Hermann reaches for his wine glass.

“I…” Newt begins, then trails off. A breath of shivering silence, then he is wiping the frown from his features and shaking his head and smiling that old reckless smile that Hermann is so desperately fond of. “You know what? I’m just gonna go out on a limb here and say it.” For a moment he pauses, and he looks Hermann in the eye with such bright intensity Hermann’s hands are trembling. “Happy birthday, dude,” Newt says, and between the sheer breathless anticipation leading to it and the misleadingly romantic look in Newt’s eye before saying it, Hermann has to bring the wine glass to his lips and take a frazzled sip.

Which is a mistake, as immediately after, Newt continues, “Also, I think I’m in love with you.”

And Hermann chokes. His eyes go wide, and he inhales wine and splutters into his glass, and he very nearly clunks the glass against his forehead with the sudden violence of it all. And then to top it all off the blush comes. Staring at the electric candle in the center of the table, he feels warmth flush into his cheeks, his ears, the back of his neck. It is all he can do to set the wine glass down and, addressing the candle, say, “Oh, my.” Up his throat the words scratch, and they come out rather raw for all the choking. He feels more, a thousand words all bubbling up within him scrabbling to rush across his lips, but so absolutely stunned with the force of the moment is he that he sits there in silence. He at last drags his eyes up to meet Newt, and finds them expectant warm.

Restlessness settles soon enough within Newt, though, and drives out the warmth; Hermann sees his confidence ebb the longer he simply stares agape at him, but he cannot haul the words from his throat. And so Newt at last fills the silence, words all rushing out: “Oh God, I didn’t — well, I can’t exactly take it back, can I, that was pretty clear — uh, I’m sorry. I thought you felt the same. And I mean to be fair, you — you held my hand even though I hadn’t washed my hands after I left the lab, which I took in and of itself as — as romantic. But I guess I — I misread it all, so —”

“You didn’t wash your hands?” Of all the things to finally slip past his lips, of course it is the mildly accusatory question with no relevance to what Hermann actually wants to say.

“…That’s your takeaway from all this. That — that I didn’t wash my hands.” Newt leans back in his chair and tangles his fingers in his hair. “Why do I love you?” he says, bewildered, though Hermann knows there is no malice in it.

“It’s not really a rational thing, is it? Love,” says Hermann. He knows, he knows his feelings are reciprocated and there is no danger in saying it aloud, but still the words will not come; he is dipping a toe into the waters, hoping that the courage to speak his thoughts will come to him along the way. For good measure he takes another sip of wine. “It strikes us at the most inopportune moments, and compels us to do most unreasonable things.” His hand shakes as he sets back down the glass, and Newt’s eyes follow the little ripples shuddering through the wine. “For example, I see no point in celebrating birthdays. And yet here we are, having dinner by candlelight, celebrating my birthday together.” A meaningful look he gives Newt, and hopes he has caught his intentions.

“Hermann, holy shit, okay, I get it.“ Newt waves a hand to stop him, and gives a self-deprecating laugh. "You don’t need to explain to _me_ that it’s irrational for me to have feelings for you.”

“What?” says Hermann, and then his brow crumples. “No, no! I was not… I was not speaking of you. I meant that…” he trails off, and sucks in a deep breath against the tightness in his chest. The moment is come: and he musters every ounce of bravery he has within himself, clutches to it like a vice. “I meant it is irrational that I gave in when you insisted on cooking a birthday dinner for me. It is irrational that I don’t mind celebrating my birthday if I get to spend the day with you.”

“Oh,” says Newt, and the warm hope in his eyes sets something inordinately fond shimmering through Hermann’s chest.

A small smile cracks across Hermann’s face, and the levee breaks. “I love you,” he says at last. “I have loved you for a very long time, Newton. I am… not the best with emotions. At saying them aloud, and...”

There is more he wants to say; so many years of feelings subdued, and things unsaid, and sheer torrid emotion vibrating through his every nerve. But Newt is shooting up from his chair, and knocking into the little table in his haste to reach Hermann, and pulling him up into a kiss: at first the sweet brush of lips on lips, and then it deepens. Hermann’s arms come up to wind about Newt’s waist and pull him crushingly close, and Newt’s hand is at the back of his neck, soft and warm. By electric candlelight they kiss, and at last break away for air, though they do not break their embrace. Newt presses one more brief little kiss to Hermann’s lips, then buries his head against Hermann’s neck. Lightly his hair brushes up along Hermann’s jawline.

"I have wanted to do that for a very long time,” Hermann murmurs.

“Me too, man,” says Newt, and Hermann hears the smile in his voice, and knows without looking that it is bright and lovely. “I almost did it, too — I almost kissed you. When I was finally myself again and the Precursors were gone, and I saw you, I had to keep myself from just going over and…” he breaks off into a chuckle, and pulls back from their embrace. There is a void where once Newt's hands were; the air pricks oddly cool against Hermann’s skin, but now Hermann can look him in the eye.

“You should have,” says Hermann. “I would not have stopped you.”

“Well, I’ll be honest, I didn’t want my very first act as a free man to be pushing you up against a wall and — and making out with you in front of half the senior PPDC officials.” Newt returns to his chair, and sits, and Hermann follows suit.

“Pity. I’m sure the expressions on their faces would have been quite something.” Hermann’s mouth quirks up into half a grin. “If nothing else it would have saved you the months of testing to prove you were truly yourself once more.”

“Yeah, but then I wouldn’t have gotten to hold your hand through the really painful tests, or gotten to pretend I was so worn out that I needed you to bring me lunch everyday.” Newt’s eyes reflect the merry candlelight, and a very warm feeling indeed flutters within Hermann.

“Oh, Newton,” he says, and does not bother to disguise his fondness. 

"Happy birthday, Hermann."

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can find me on tumblr at Kingfindekano as well! (:


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